


Mannequin

by whompingpillow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Emotions, Feels, Flashbacks, Fluff, Loss, Love, M/M, Memories, Mild Sexual Content, Post Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:03:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whompingpillow/pseuds/whompingpillow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year on and John is still grieving the death of his best friend. He visits the place where it all ended and starts reliving key moments in their relationship so vividly it's almost as if Sherlock is there with him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mannequin

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fan fiction so please leave any advice or comments below. Thanks guys :)

A lot can happen in a year. A lot, you’d think, in the case of normal would mean progressing through life- new job, meet new people, move house, fall in love… Sometimes, though, things can go the other way in the name of ‘a-lot’ and where those things you took for granted were next to perfect, they come back to bite you when you least expect it- sibling is found self-harming, family pet is lost, you become terminally ill, the one you love dies… 

These are the times you find yourself spiralling further and further down until all that’s left is a hollow where your heart used to be; too worn in to be affected by any bout of crippling depression. All you are is a faceless mannequin. No name, no purpose, no ultimate reason to be living in this world; a long-time ago personality who used to have friends and an emotional range surpassing that of a pinky fingernail, but is now just… empty.

At first when the ‘a lot’ kicks in and you’re still capable of feeling pain, you protest against the deed with every fibre of your being. But some day after it’s been committed- it might be days, it might be years- you wake up in the morning feeling different. You’ve screamed into your pillow, cried dry your eyes, begged senseless your want, your need for just one more day and then suddenly… you’re changed. For some people, we’ll call them the ‘fortunates’, it’s a change for the positive. They get up rejuvenated, seeing the incident, accepting it, being grateful for the previous memories, and then just moving on. It’s not that they don’t care anymore, it’s just they’ve come to realise that that’s how life works, and whatever they do, things aren’t going to change, no matter how much they want them to. A fortunate is what you want to be.

The ‘others’ is what we’ll call the rest. They are the faceless mannequins of the population. They wake up on that morning feeling numb and beyond recuperation. Changed for the worse and incapable of seeing that things are never going to be the same again. Sometimes the others do come back up to earth, sometimes they stay that way forever, swallowed up in a vortex of self-loathing and burning pain. The ache in their chest becomes so powerful it’s as if it’s no longer there at all, as if all the feeling has been scorched away by the flaming torment of too much unusable love. They’ll be fighting to find closure and get on with their life, but it’s more times than not they’ll lose. They are aware of what’s going on in the real world, but it’s more like wandering through somebody else’s dream than anything else. From the outside looking in; never really there, but somehow still existing. Faceless mannequins: dead to themselves and dead to society. A lot can happen in a year they say. 

 

John stood on the roof of Bartholomew’s. This was it. This was where it had all ended. This was where his whole existence had spread his arms, took a step, and fallen to his end. Jesus, he thought. What a complete and utter arsehole! He should’ve hated his guts. Why had he jumped? Why? After everything they’d been through, why had he thought it alright to throw the lot away in one swift act. Just…Like…That. Poof, and he’d gone. Coming up in the next performance: Sherlock Holmes and his magically disappearing heartbeat. Just you watch as his glamorous assistant tries helplessly to revive him. Stay tuned for the conclusion as we watch the supernatural phenomena that is a recurring post-traumatic stress disorder. 

And it had all happened so fast. One second he was there, about to tell Sherlock that he thought he’d found a way of resolving all their problems, the next he was watching his body hurtling through the air. 

And what was with his lies? John had known fine well this man was no fraud, so why was he trying to convince him so? So many things didn’t piece together, and even when they did he didn’t want to believe them. Everything being dictated to him said to believe Moriarty, the news reporter; god, even Sherlock himself was trying to sway him. He knew he probably should have done, every finger pointed that way after all, but there was some lingering voice in the back of his mind telling him to have faith in what he really knew. And what he really knew was Sherlock. Sherlock the annoying, Sherlock the socially inept; Sherlock the bigheaded, smart aleck, with an ego the size of a small solar system. 

Of course, he thought. That wasn’t the only Sherlock you can remember. Imagining him now more vividly than he’d dared since the day his pain became nothing more than a dead sensation. He could feel it coursing through his veins now, threatening to make a reappearance. Badoom, badoom. His heart beating wilder as his golden memories drove him crazier and crazier.

A rainy day in London. Mrs Hudson was visiting her sister in the country. John was reading the Daily Mail. He felt Sherlock’s piercing gaze on the side of his face. Badoom badoom.  


 

“You know your lips move when you read, John?” He said.  


“No, Sherlock, neither would you if you’d done something other than stare at me for the last half hour.”  
“I was only pondering, rather an annoying habit don’t you think?”  
“No more annoying than watching people whilst they’re trying to read.”  
“Fair point I grant you, I only mentioned because although you’ve carried on turning the pages like you’re still reading, your mouth stopped moving back on…er…I believe it was page 31, piano playing tabby cat wasn’t it?”  


Silence ebbed away at them.  


“Something more intriguing on your mind, perhaps?”  
“Oh wouldn’t you like to know.” John snapped back, trying not to flush at Sherlock’s insinuation. Truth was, he’d been watching Sherlock by the reflection in the telly. How he sat, the crossed arms over his chest, ever so slightly parted legs…  


“You see I only wondered, because for the last half hour you’ve done nothing more than stare at my crotch in the telly, talk about annoying habits.”  
There was no containing his embarrassment this time and a rosy pink stained his cheeks.  


“No need to feel ashamed, John, desire gets the better of us sometimes and all you really need to do is either control it… or release it.” He had on that aroused but smug expression that irritated John mercilessly. “And everybody knows when you contain the animal, all it really does is create a beast.” He darted across the living room to the armchair John was inhabiting.  


“Ah Jesus, Sherlock not this again,” he said. “Last time was just an overflow, an overflow from a one night thing that never should’ve happened.” He had no idea why he was protesting. Perhaps it was his complete lack of attraction towards Sherlock. His high cheekbones, lean frame, soft lips, handsome face. Perhaps not then, so what was it? Maybe the prospect that if something went wrong it wouldn’t be only a lover he’d be losing- he’d be losing his best friend.  


But what if it doesn’t go wrong? said the voice in his head. What if it goes oh, so right? He thought for a second.  
I couldn’t stand to lose him though.  


Who says you have to lose him? There it was again. You’ll make it work somehow, besides how long is it you’ve been waiting for this moment?  
That was all he needed.  


“Fine then, you have me,” he sighed. “Although this time, easy on the teething, I’m not a dog’s chew toy.”  
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth drew up. “Don’t pretend you didn’t love it, I felt your heart beating faster.” John tried to look impassive, but failed. God, this man knew him far too well.

 

John stood up to the edge of the building and looked down. He could see the exact spot he’d been at when he’d seen Sherlock on the ledge. Twelve whole months? That couldn’t be right. How could he have survived twelve months without seeing his face? Existed, knowing when he got home, the one rock he could always cling to would no longer be sat waiting for him to get back, only just conscious to the fact he’d even left. 

Those were the moments he’d miss the most. The ones only Sherlock could make possible. Who doesn’t realise when you’re on holiday in another county? 

That hadn’t been the only thing Sherlock had been oblivious to until a couple of months before he… before he jumped. John could never say died, would never deem it possible. There had to be some catch, some detail he’d missed when looking for answers. 

But, yes, completely oblivious to the fact John’s feelings for him had reached beyond friendship. Why did you wait so long to tell him? He thought. You stupid, stupid man. Even when John had finally plucked up the courage to act on his feelings, Sherlock hadn’t thought it much more than a fling. He’d told him explicitly a couple of days afterwards not to expect anything more. Naturally that conversation turned into the best sex John had ever had, and was it Sherlock using him? Possibly, so he’d been wary the third time round. It was when he’d been watching him sleep that time that he’d realised it meant as much to Sherlock as it did to himself. Never one to betray his emotions; only in a dreamy state would he reveal his secrets. That said, a week or so later he finally submit himself to John. Nothing he didn’t already know, but coming from the man awake made it feel more real. The three little words that had left his lips in seconds, stayed with John for always. Staring down at the pavement, he felt his jaw lock and shut his eyes against the low ebb awakening in his chest. He saw the visions in his head like they were unfolding in front of him. A long, summer’s night, the two of them alone. 

Badoom badoom. There was his heart again, betraying him like always.

 

It was all his hot, sweaty fantasies come true. The nibbles at his thigh, the stroking of his shaft. Up and down up and down until he didn’t think he could take much more.

But taking wasn’t enough and he felt he needed to give as good as he got. Using his hand as a guide, he eased Sherlock’s penis into his mouth. He sucked the tip, gently at first, sliding his tongue up and around. Sherlock’s body stiffened on top of him. He leant back onto his elbows and moaned deeply. John replaced the mouth with a hand and pumped his Sherlock into ecstasy. As he neared the climax, Sherlock thrusted his hips, faster and faster so as to keep up with the pacemaker. The inevitable come was hot on John’s hand.

“Your turn,” Sherlock murmured breathlessly, straddling John from on high. He grinded into him, their hard cocks dancing together as John tried hard to control himself. Sherlock turned him over and was soon pounding away from behind. Oh god! John thought, letting out an involuntary groan of pleasure. The throbbing prick he could feel inside him only stimulated him more, and it wasn’t much longer before his own come dampened the bed sheets. His pulsating cock stood soldier in the dark and he wondered how the fuck he could think this could be wrong. He smiled into the darkness as the thrust of Sherlock’s hips drove him to insanity.

“You know you talk in your sleep?” Asked John, smiling. “Well not so much talk, as move your lips with... the occasional outburst.”  


“Do I? Must be a lock down in the mind palace. Too much feeling for the superior mind to take, had to get rid of it somehow. You should think yourself lucky you don’t have to worry about that sort of thing.”  
“Charming as ever,” John murmured.  


“Of course you wouldn’t know I’d been sleep talking had you not been watching me for the last half hour.” The rise and fall of his chest, the gentle twitching in his unconscious state. “Another annoying habit it seems.”  
“Fair point I grant you,” John said, smiling at the parallel. “I only mentioned because for the last half hour you’re lips have been stationary. Oh and your eyelids have been fluttering, big giveaway, Mr Holmes, better luck next time.”  
“Ah,” he said. “I guess I’m caught.”  
“Something more interesting on your mind perhaps?” John was finding it hard to restrain his chuckle. Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully for a second.  


“Interesting? I don’t think so, perfectly common, I’d say. Run of the mill sort of thing, you know, nothing extraordinary.”  
John’s chuckle turned to a frown. Harrumph. It was Sherlock’s turn to grin.  
“Intriguing, though?” He said, propping himself up on his elbows. “Definitely what I’d call it. The average mind, John, always baffling me” And he leant towards John, gently caressing his mouth with his own. John looked up.  
“Perfectly common?” he said, and Sherlock laughed.

 

Standing on the edge he gently rocked backwards and forwards. On his heels, on his toes, swaying with the breeze. Maybe he hadn’t been enough for that superior specimen: obviously not, or he wouldn’t have jumped. He’d been ridiculous to think he’d be able to gratify him really. He was nothing more to Sherlock than a mild distraction.  


Remember what he told you John?  
Yes, but he also told me he didn’t have friends or want a relationship. And the apology afterwards wasn’t exactly conventional or meaningful.  
“I only have one”. What’s that supposed to mean? And was he only just a friend to Sherlock? Leading him on as some sort of experiment into investigating the ways of the average mind.  


You know that’s not true.  
But did he? Did he actually know Sherlock at all? John leant further over the edge, the ache in his chest now consuming him completely.  


“John stop,” said the voice, but he only smiled broadly. The voice had sounded stronger, as if the build up to what he was doing itself brought them closer.  


“What’s the matter?” he said to the air. “Am I too inferior to have the same great end as Sherlock Holmes?”  
“Not at all,” said the voice. “You deserve better.”  
“If it was good enough for him, it’s too much for me,” he said, becoming suddenly angry. “One miracle!” he yelled. “I asked for one more, fucking miracle!”  
“I know,” said the voice. “But please just do this for me.”  
John spluttered. As if he hadn’t done enough already!  


“I’ve made my decision,” he yelled. “You’ll just have to deal with it like I’ve had to deal with yours.”  
So this is what it came down to. After Afghanistan, after the pain, one swift movement and it would all be over. He braced himself to step forward, telling himself it would just be like crossing a road. One last deep breath… 3…2…1.

“JOHN!”  
He jolted in shock, losing his footing as he spun round. That hadn’t come from the voice in his head. He slipped and toppled and he knew then he was going to die. He’d never actually considered going through with the jump, but it seemed now that fate was making the call for him. He scrambled to regain his balance but it was too late. He fell backwards as he watched someone dive recklessly towards him. The last thing he remembered feeling was a pair of outstretched arms pulling him towards safety. Warm and secure within their grasp, he looked up to see the only person he wanted to, and the one he had least expected.  


“Are you out of your mind?” he said, but John was barely listening, his head was running wild. Was he going crazy? “Speak to me! John! Are you alright?” The man shook his shoulders firmly and finally he came to.  
“Yeah I’m fine, but-,” his head shook. “You…you’re alive… you’re…but what…what the actual fuck?!”  
Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. “I know it’s a lot to take in right now, but it’s just one more miracle.”  
John was stunned, he didn’t know what to say. All this time! “How long were you standing there?”  
“I don’t know, long enough. Ten minutes perhaps?” So it wasn’t death making the voice sound stronger.  
“I don’t understand, I saw you. You were dead, how is this possible?”  
“I’ll explain everything John, just please, come down with me.”  
He hesitated a second. “Yes of course, I just need to get myself together, one moment please.” He turned around. What was going on? This couldn’t be real. Maybe it was some kind of joke. Maybe not, but there was one thing he knew for certain, and it was rising up like a volcano about to erupt.  


“Sherlock?” he asked.  
“Yes.”  
“Come here a second.” He obeyed, looking cautious.  
“What’s the problem?”  
“Just bend down a second.” Sherlock looked incredibly apprehensive but did what he was told. “A bit closer, a bit closer, now stop. Perfect.”

John had no idea what the hell Sherlock thought was about to happen; a kiss maybe judging by his face as he let forth an unbelievably powerful right hook. Sherlock keeled back clutching his jaw, but John snapped up feeling satisfied. The past twelve months might as well not have happened. He was back.  


“Right then, off we go.” And he led the patrol straight down the exit staircase and back to 221B.


End file.
